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I Idylls of the 
SfcflletFork 

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Book .I.^^y 1.^ 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



TO 

THE PRESIDING SPIRIT 

(IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING) 

HEREIN CALLED 

"BILL" 

OF 

SKILLET FORK FARM 

ON THE BORDERS OF 

"EGYPT" 




"Shill 



Idylls 

of tne 

Skillet fork 

by 

Payson S. Wild 




Ralph Fletcher Seymour 
Chicago 



fc. 






Copyrighted 1918 
Ralph Fletcher Seymour 

JAN -6 1919 

©CU 5 08 883 



y^A S) I 



Foreword 

Twenty-two of these Bucolics have ap- 
peared from time to time during the last 
three years in "a line o' type or two" of 
The Chicago Tribune. For permission to 
reprint them here I am indebted to the 
genial "Conductor." 

P. S. W. 
Chicago, November, 1918. 



Contents 

Page 

The Skillet 5 

The Bootleg Gang at Sims' ..... 7 

The Mocking Bird 11 

The Siren 15 

Laury at the 'Phone . . . . . . 17 

The 'Possum Hunt 19 

Jupiter 21 

Laury's Lullaby 23 

Bill Non-Committal 25 

Laury's "Eats" 29 

Bill on Seth Watts S3 

The Katydid 37 

Bill's Vote 41 

Bill's "Risin' " 43 

Calamitous Days 47 

The Pet Calf 51 

Bill on War 53 

Treed 57 

Bill on Tobacco 61 

The New Year's Turkey 65 

The Picture 67 

The Letter from Lon 69 

The Drouth 73 

The Labor Question 75 

Killed in Action 77 

November 79 



Say, Bill, ef I've cast sparrergrass at yew 
In this 'ere book, ye needn't think it's trew; 
Fer yew air jes' 's yer be from day ter day 
In spite o' what us foolin' fellers say. 




IDYLLS OF THE SKILLET FORK 

I 

The Skillet 

RECK'N yew've never saw the Skillet? 
Wal, ye-e-es, they's likelier streams; 
But when ye git ri' daown to 't, stranger, 
It kind o' hants yer dreams. 

It pokes along through grayish bottoms, 

An' *s crookeder then worms, 
An' the water's sometimes green an' scummy, 

An' full o' things thet squirms. 

All kinds o' logs an' sticks an' driftin's 
Hez here an' thar got grounded, 

An' almos' everything thet's in it 
Looks 'zac'ly like 't was drownded. 

Fokes yuseter say it's jes' thet crooked 

Yew couldn't cross the crick 
'Thout findin' yew was whar ye started — 

But thet's lay'n 't on tew thick. 

I wan' ter tell ye tho' they's somepin' 

'Bout this 'ere Skillet "river" 
Right naow in Aprul time thet gives ye 

A reel poetic shiver. 

Them gums an' water-oaks an' hick'ries, 
Thet grows along its aidges, 



Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Is jes' alive with leafy swellin's, 
Fur Spring's a-keep'n' 'er plaidges! 

Yer see thet sassafras a-greenin', 

Them voylets peekin' at yer, 
Thet bunch o' pinkish blows a-leerin' 

Jessif they'd like ter bat yer? 

An' birds! I never heerd sich music, 

Nor seen sich ri'tous colors, 
From "Peter-birds" to larks an' card'nals, 

An' sparrers brown ez crullers. 

Sa', jevver hear o' "cats"? I've saw 'em 
Git ketched in that thar crick; 

I'd tell ye haow 'f I knowed ye'd b'lieve me- 
They dew it awful slick. 

Yew jes' wade in — not seein' nothin', 

'Cos all the water's yaller — 
An' then ye feel in 'raound the mud-holes 

Whar 't's nice an' warm an' shaller. 

'F a "cat" 's to home yew tech 'im gentle, 

An' sort o' stroke his flank; 
Then suddint like yew grab his collar, 

An' sling 'im ont' the bank! 



Yew've mebbe never saw this "river"? 

Thar is, p'r'aps, likelier streams; 
But when ye git ri' daown to 't, stranger, 

It right smart hants yer dreams. 



II 

The Bootleg Gang at Sims' 

\7"EP, Egyp's dry; 'z a gin'ral rule 

They ain't much doin' in likker; 
Saloons is skurce 'z a breedin' mule, 

An' shy 'z a nestin' flicker. 
But fokes kin git it — "bootleg stuff" — 

An' hev a reel good souse, 
Tho' most o' them that does it 's tough, 

An' allers startin' rows. 

Onct down ter Sims', so people tell, 

A bunch o' pickled runts 
Raised sev'ral kinds o' p'tic'lar cain 

An' pulled some rowdy stunts. 
Now 'Mersion 's pop'lar thar ter Sims', 

Some 'd ruther hev 't than eatin's; 
More 'n half the fokes sings Baptis' hymn., 

An' goes ter all the meetin's. 

Wal, they jes' give 'emselves a hunch 

An' got the law behind 'em; 
The sheriff rounded up the bunch, 

An' Jestice Herford fined 'em. 
This made the boozers awful sore; 

They'd git thet Baptis' goat! 
So fer a week they planned an' swore 

An' kep' their scheme remote. 



8 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Then suddint like one Sart'day night 

They took a hoss 't hed died 
(They 'lowed it wan't no pleasant sight), 

An' lugged it right inside 
The Baptis' church 'ithout a sound, 

An' cut it all ter bits, 
Which they throwed ever'whar around, 

A-laffin' mos' ter fits. 

It seems like sackerlege or libel, 

But fac's is allers fac's; 
Thet hoss'es head laid on the Bible, 

All bludjunned with a ax. 
The sexton cleaned the mess some way, 

An' services was held; 
But no one hed no word ter say — 

Jes' prayed an' sang an' — smelled. 

The foll'rin' week some roughneck pup 

Shet caows up in the church; 
Which kind o' net the members up — 

Enough ter start a search. 
But nothin' doin' till one dark night 

Thet rummy boozin' crew 
Blowed up the church with dynamite, 

An' then lit aout an' flew. 

Say, jevver see a Baptis' hot, 

Not Christyun hot but human? 
The kind thet kin, jes' 's easy 's not, 

Coagerlate albewman? 
That's what they was, jes' reg'lar hellers; 

No more o' heapin' coals! 
They swore they'd jug them bootleg fellers 

'F it cost their mortal souls. 



The Bootleg Gang at Sims' 

They done it tew. Some tracks they seen 

They kivered up with pails; 
'N' a coupl' o' "bloods" thet wasn't green 

Was sicked upon the trails. 
They chased the bums ter Hick'ry Run, 

An' thar the Baptis's tarred 
An' feathered ev'ry doggone one, 

An' chucked 'em under guard. 

Them boys is crackin' stun terday; 

A new church stan's in Sims', 
An' now in peace they watch an' pray 

An' sing their Baptis' hymns. 



Yep, Egyp's dry; 'z a gin'ral thing 
The toughs don't dast ter dicker 

With enny kind o' Baptis' ring — 
Leastways when 't comes ter likker. 



Ill 

The Mocking Bird 

WAS drinkin' in the glory on a day 
Late in May, 
Feelin' dreamy an* delishus, like a chick'n, 

When she's pick'n 
Tiny pebbles out o' gravel, or a-fluffin' 

An' a-puffin' 
All her feathers in a sunny nest o' dust; 
An* I cussed 

Sich a foolish world fer sweatin' an' a-swinkin', 

An' a-thinkin' 
Thet a feller hez ter rustle an' be snappy 

Tew be happy. 
'T was a nawful loafy mornin' — tell ye thet — 

An' I set 
Watchin' ev'ry livin' critter feel 'is oats. 

My, them shoats! 

Say, yew'd orter heerd 'em gruntin' an' a-crunchin' 

An' a-munchin', 
Jessif nuthin' ever mattered in their creed 

'Ceptin' feed. 
An* the pidjuns was a-cooin' quite aloof 

On the roof; 
Thar was hosses, thar was heffers, thar was steers, 

Chanticleers, 



12 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Perky hens, an' turkey cocks, an', 'pon my word, 

Ev'ry bird 
Thet I ever seen or heerd of — all a-croakin', 

An' a-soakin' 
In ol' Feebus' dazzlin' rajunce — all a-eatin' 

An' a-tweetin' — 
Jim'ny Crickets, Holy Kittens! Dew ye wonder 

Now, by thunder, 

'T I was glad ter jes' be livin' on the earth? 

W'y, 't was worth 
All the sorrer, all the pain 't I ever had, 

'T was, by gad! 
But I gotta tell ye suthin' 't 'appened then; 

Ever b'en 
Whar a mockin'-bird was tunin' up 'is fiddle? 

It's a riddle 

How 'e symfonizes ev'ry sort o' noise 

An' employs 
A composer's subterfujes (ez ye've noted) 

Single throated. 
Wal, I seen one settin' up thar (knowed 't was him) 

On a limb 
Of a deadish kind o' ellum, 'n' I could tell 

Jes' ez well 

'T *e was cockyer than a roarin' swearin' pirate 

By the high rate 
He was thrashin' o' them wings o' his, an' tail 

Like a flail. 
First I tho't I was a-list'nin' tew a martin 

Sure for sartin; 
Then a blue-jay almos' give me 'n awful shock 

With 'is squawk; 



The Mocking Bird 13 

I was jest a-gittin' used ter hearin' that bird, 

When a cat-bird 
Started in ter yowl an' sputter, julluk Tabby 

.When she's gabby; 
Then some swallers, chickadees, an' whippoorwills 

Give me thrills, 
An' I tell ye I was altergether foozled, 

Jes' bamboozled, 

Ez I watched that clever cynnic keep a-rockin' 

An' a-mockin', 
Till at last he got so bubbly full o' fizz 

Thet 'e riz 
Off thet lonely perch o' his'n right up square 

Int' the air, 
Still a-swingin' an' a-singin' in 'is revel 

Like the devil! 

Then 'e come ri' down agin an' hit the spot 

W 7 har 'e'd sot; 
Hadn't lost a single note — jes' kep' 'er goin' 

'S if he's mowin'. 



Dew ye reckon I'll fergit thet garrylus 

Little cuss? 
Wal, ye got anuther "reckon" comin' then — 

Mebbe ten. 



IV 

The Siren 

HTHEY'S a hull snarl o' potes hez driveled 'bout 
Joon 

With its leefyness, freshness an' greenth; 
'N' if I was anuther, I s'pose — which I ain't — 

I'd be the four umpty an' steenth. 

Ez regards ter the Skillet — wal, pardner, b'leeve 
me, 
It's right in its prime, buggosh; 
Yew kin talk all yer wanter, it's fine ter jes' 
sawnter 
An' look at ol' Nacher a-slosh. 

I was thar spell ago — druv sixteen mile 

With Bill an' a load o' soy beans; 
An' I swar ter the Dooce thet I never hed knowed 

Afore what greenin' means. 

Be'n a-rainin' like sin, but hed then faired up 

An' the sky was julluk a gentian; 
I ain't never knew sich a hevvenly blue, 

Ef ye'll 'low me in passin' ter mention. 

The river was full, plum full ter the top, 

A matter o' thirty odd feet, 
An' the water hed backed ont' the bottoms right 
smart, 

But was dreenin' off fast with the heat. 



16 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

'Twas a sarpent o' choc'lit a-rithin' an' twistin' 

Ri' down a arborial tunnel ; 
An' Bill 'e sez, "Naow, ef we hed a ol' scaow, 

We could flote ter Noorleans thru a funnel!" 

But the way them fiel's was enjoyin' thersel's! 

They was fairly yellin' with glee; 
I reckon I must 'a' be'n pretty high keyed, 

An' I tell ye it jes' got me. 

I kind o' suspishun Bill heerd suthin' tew, 

Fer a exstasy hit 'im like pain ; 
It looked like fer sure he was feelin' the lure 

O' the siren thet sings after rain. 



V 

Laury at the 'Phone 

V\7 r ILL'S drove ter Keene's fer 'nockerlated seed; 
Queer, ain't it, 'bout thet nitrigin — Down 
Rover! 
Will sez we git mos' twict ez much o' feed 
Fer growin' them thar teeny warts on clover. . . 

Uh huh . . . We're limin' tew; Will sez the sile 

Hez soured bad an' needs a "alkali" . . . 
I do' know what 'tis — never heerd it — I'll 

Ax him; on sich like words I'm kind o' shy. . . 

Malviny? Reely? Throwed anuther fit? 

Yew better call, I reckon, Docter Mott; 
Seems like she's gittin' old enuff ter quit — 

Will sez he 'lows it's jes' plain fits she's got. 

Our Duroc "Iphijeny" 's littered . . . eight . . . 

Jes' walkin' cherries! My, but how they'll 
grow! 
Will's figg'rin' now on what'll be the'r weight 

Come Fall; he sez our corn's a-runnin' low. . . 

D'yew say it's yaller? Prob'ly got "damp feet"; 

Will sez alfalfy'll do thet when't's tew wet . . . 
The way it gits ter rain is hard ter beat; 

But then, Will sez it ain't no use ter fret. . . 



18 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

No, couldn't go las' night — set up fer Nell; 

Vern Rowell druv 'er out — seemed like all night; 
'Twas nine afore they come . . . He means reel 
well, 

But Will he sez the Rowells ain't quite right. . . 

She was? She's led the singin' awful good; 

I never tho't she'd be baptized ; Will sez — 
Willie! Git right off! — He's clum the wood 

Pile; that 'ar' way he'll fall — Lan' sakes, he hez! 




(FounMile 
Creek 



VI 
The 'Possum Hunt 

■'pOUR MILE" was jes' kind o' googlin' along 

(It ketches the Skillet in "Thirty-three" 
Whar the woods is thick an' the moon ain't strong, 

An' the 'possum hides in a holler tree) ; 
'T was shimmerin' thar all gold an' bright 

Ez we loafed threw the medder thet Awtum 
night. 

We'd et a light supper — sow belly, corn bread, 
Pickled beets, fried eggs an' two kinds o' pie — 

When Bill, sort o' cazuel, shoved back an' said, 
A-squintin' aloft at a perfec' sky: 

U 'S a pretty good night fer coons; so still 
Yer kin hear ver heart when yer've clum up 
hill." 

I sensed what he meant, so I flaxed around, 

An' in less 'n no time we was out on the trail. 
Bill's houn' dawg, ol' Jess, was sniffin' the ground 

Pertendin' tew ax, "Is it 'possum or quail?" 
Tho' she knowed well enough thet a Hunter's 
Moon 
Don't never mean nuthin' 'cept 'possum or 
coon. 

I've heerd tell o' moonlights on earth here an' thar, 
In Venice, an' down in ol' Rome's Colyseum; 



20 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

But gim me the light of our lunary star 

When dew turns ter di'monds in Frost's jubi- 
leum; 

When the 'simmons is ripe, an' not a leaf stirs, 
An' the fiel's is jes' drownded in silvery blurs! 

We was strollin' 'long "Four Mile" when suddenly 

Jess 
With a sharp, quick yelp shot off threw the bresh. 
Jehosaphat, pard, I gotta confess 
How a houn' dawg's tonguin' will quicken the 

flesh! 
For over a hour me 'n Bill snook along, 
An' never got tired o' foll'rin' thet song. 

She was pawin' a tree when we seen 'er at last, 
A-yelpin' an' whinin' jessif she's possessed. 

'T was a gum, thick an' solid, an' big ez a mast, 
An' 'fore I could speak Bill was down tew 'is 
vest. 

Some chopper is Bill, an' I sure never seen 

A tree cut cleaner — nor ha'f ez clean. 

All shiny an' white like a human kid 

Thet 'possum looked when we hauled 'er out! 

I felt like 't was murder, I suttenly did, 

But Bill 'e sez, "Now, keep a eye on 'er snout; 

She'll ac' 'z if she's daid ez long ez it's curled, 
An' don't ye leggo of 'er — not fer the world." 

$ £ £ & £ 

When we reached "Four Mile" we sed down ter 

rest, 

Completely bewitched by thet orb in the West. 

We was talkin' 'bout Injuns, an' seem' 'em tew, 

When I noticed, by jing, that 'ar 'possum hed 

blew! 



VII 

Jupiter 

T^EW months ago, I 'member well, me'n Bill 

Was settin' by the cattle wat'rin'-trough 
A-lis'nin' tew the steers thet skwudged around 
The muddy yard an' chawed the'r cuds an' sighed. 
A bunch o' smallish hogs hed quit the'r rootin' 
An' packed the'rsel's up close agin the fence, 
An' yew'd 'a' laft ter hear 'em goin' ter sleep. 
Ef one the runts was squeezed a mite tew much 
By 'nother layin' on 'im kind o' hard, 
He'd snort an' squeal ter beat a callioap, 
Then shove the bunch aside an' wiggle out, 
An' give 'em fits, an' then go 'long an' plunk 
His carcuss on some other one; an' then 
We'd git the hull dum show all over 'gin. 

Wal, me an' Bill was watchin' on 'em quar'l 
An' slowly qui'tin' down. 'T was one them 

nights — 
Yew've saw 'em, co'se, ef yew was country 

raised — 
A leetle tinge o' red left in the west, 
When yew kin still set out without a coat, 
An' yit yer sort o' glad when yew come in 
An' find the lamp's het up the room. Yew felt 
Thet Fallish dreaminess thet ain't like May's, 
When Nacher's takin' off 'er overalls, 
But ain't quite done with cleanin' up the ruck. 



22 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

We got a-talkin* speckerlatish like, 
'N' I sez, a-lookin' up t' them milyun stars, 
"I bet ye, Bill, they's farms on Jupiter," 
An' Bill 'e sez, "I've offen thought o' that." 

An' then he started in an* reeled it off 
Jessif he's readin' po'try outen books: 
"A Jovial Spring," he sez (his very words), 
"Mus' last fer mos' three years, an' Fall the same. 
Jes' think o' havin' apple blows, or 'simmons, 
All 't once that long! But then yer'd hev ter plow 
An' harrer tew fer three four years 't a stretch; 
Things 'd even up about the same, I reckon . . . 
Eight kinds o' moonlight thar, Jehosaphat! 
Wonder'f thet means eight kinds o' moonshine 

tew! 
An' whadyer' spose it dooz ter lovers, potes, 
An' bayin' houn' dawgs " "O Bil-1-1! Ain't 

ye com'n?" 
'T was Laury callin' 'im. She never knowed 
How much she pestered Bill. "Le's gwin," he sez. 



VIII 

Laury's Lullaby 

^LL day I'd b'en a-cuttin' wheat 
In the drippin'est kind o' heat, 
While Bill he'd drug the road right smart 
An' hed made what he called a start 
Out on the forty west the silos 
(On the road leadin' down to Milo's). 
We both was watchin' th' evenin' star, 
Sort o' smokin' an' dozin' thar, 
VVhen Laury's voice begun ter croon 
W 7 ith the follerin' drowsy toon: 

Sleep 0, Willy bright! 
The whip-poor -wilVs pleadin', 
But mommy ain't heedin', 
Fer Willy aint needin' 

No beatiri ternight. 

Hushaby, Willy wise! 
Tree-frogs is a pipin', 
An' dad's gone a-snipin ', 
While mommy's a-wipin' 

Yo' pore little eyes. 

bye Willy bye! 
The screech-owl's a-screechin' , 
The veery's beseeching 
An' mommy feels meachin' 

Ter hear Willy cry. 



24 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

In the chimly they's chitt'rin' 
An' twitt'rin' an' litt'rin', 

Sleep 0, sleep 0, Willy wee; 
Fer the swallers is cheepin' 
An* peepin' an' sleepin' — 

That's whar Willy wee orter be. 

On 'is little bed 0, 
With nary dread 0, 

An' a milk-weed puffy 

Fer 'is coverlet fluffy, 
Hushaby, hushaby, Willy 0; 

An' 'is piller a gossam- 
Y blow from the blossom 
Thet floats from a thistle 
Whar tralaloos whistle — 
Hushaby, hushaby, Willy 01 

Next mornin' 't breakfas' Bill aver'd: 
"Wal, I reckon thet tralaloo bird 
Was mos' tew much fer yew an' me; 
Did ye know it was ha'f pas' three . . ." 
"Shet up," I sez. O' co'se I knew, 

'Cos my clo'es was jes' soaked with dew! 



IX 

Bill Non-Committal 

I" S'POSE all farmers gits thet way in time, 
An' I don't wonder; it's enough ter make 
Perfesh'nal prophits feel onsartin like. 
I mean the everlastin' buckin' up 
Agin ol' Nacher an' the elemunts 
Year in, year out, ontil ye wouldn't sw'ar 
'T ye've got 'ny oats at all, f'r exampel, even 
When cut an' thrashed an' layin' in the bin; 
Yew know thet somp'n still kin spile thet crop. 
'F a farmer wants ter gamble, he don't hev 
Ter speckerlate on 'Change; I should say not; 
Jes' let 'im farm it, plain an' orn'ry farm it — 
Thet's all he's gotta dew. I'll bet ye'n less 
'N a fortnit he'd be plum dead sure 't 'is chances 
Fer buy'n' a kerosene kerridge playin' faro 
Was ten ter one agin the farmin' game. 
Naow jes' consider what the farmer's got 
Ter fight; they's tew much rain or not enough; 
'F 'e 's got a crick, 't will overflow an' drownd 
'Is corn, or else 't will be a ditch o' dust; 
An' then they's ev'ry bug in all helnation 
A-eatin' off his truck an' animuls; 
They's lightnin', winter-killin', rust, an' smut, 
An' wind — 'd yew ever see one them black 

twisters 
Come rippin' down an' shave the ten foot silage 
Right off a eighty slick's a whistle? I hev. 
It's one the grandes', weerdes' sights on earth, 



26 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

But hell on farmin'. Yew cain't blame a farmer 
'F 'e aint quite sure thet death an' taxes might 
Not leave 'im be. Mos' farmers won't commit 
The'rsel's on nothin' 't all, an' ain't they right? 
The trooth on't is, they don't jes' 'zac'ly know 
The'r soul's the'r own, an' Bill he's that 'a' way. 

I never seen a feller thet could git 

Away with sech a everlastin' lot 

O' beatin' round the bush an' dodgin' 's Bill. 

W'y, he aint sure o' heaven or hell, or enny 

O' them things fokes knows mostly all about. 

'F I ast 'im if they's "cats" in Four Mile, "Wal," 

He'd say — an' mebbe Laury'd jes' be'n cleanin' 

A mess he'd ketched thet day — "they git 'em thar, 

So I've heerd tell, but I dunno's they is, 

An' dunno as they is." An' when I 'low 

It looks right smart like rain, Bill squints aroun' 

An' sez he shouldn't wonder whether 't did 

Or not. An' when he's stuck a pig, an' Willy, 

A-lookin' on with bulgin' baby eyes, 

Sez breathless, "Paw, 's 'e daid?"— all Bill kin 

say's, 
"Wal, I suspishun so; he'd orter be." 

I ast 'im onct 'f 'e tho't th' alfalfy'd ketch. 

He spit an' picked a blade o' grass an' et it. 

"Seems like 'f we hed a shower o' rain, an' then 

A warmish spell thet didn't run ter drouth, 

No killin' frost or long wet rainy days, 

An' 'f Lon mixed in thet fosfate half way right, 

An' all thet 'nockerlatin' 's enny good, 

An' 'f luck should kind o' come our way a bit, 

Thet air alfalfy'd mebbe make a start." 

I knowed jes' much then 'zif I hedn't ast. 



Bill Non-Committal 27 

One time a mule kicked Bill squar' on the jaw. 
He seen it comin' — hed no chance ter dodge. 
He laid in bed a week afore he woke, 
An' staid thar 'nother nursin' up 'is face. 
A few days later meetin' that 'ar mule 
Bill sez, a-shak'n' 'is finger playful-like, 

'F I knowed fer sure 't was yew thet done this 

'ere, 
I reck'n I might git mad, but I dunno," 
An' han's the graynose cuss a fresh pulled carrot. 
That's Bill all over. Fifty years o' playin' 
The game agin the god o' Luck hez made 
'Im jest a leetle guarded in 'is speech, 
An' l'arned 'im how ter take 'is dose 'thout 

squealin'. 



X 

Laury's "Eats" 

"TT'S quarter t' five," Bill hollers; yew sigh an* 
1 mutter "Gosh!" 
An' jes' slide int' yer overhalls an' shirt; 
It ain't much use ter bother with try'n' ter take 
a wash, 
F'r in ha'f a hour yew'll be jes' 's bad fer dirt. 
Yew're ou' the barn 'n a jiffy a-feedin' Ball an' 
Belle, 
An' rubbin' up ol' Zilfy's battered hide; 
Yew're like a tired enjin', 'cos yer didn't sleep 
right well, 
But say — that breakfas' waitin' thar inside! 

It's wonderful what eatin' will dew ter set ye right; 
It's one the things 'bout farmin' 't nothin' beats; 
Yew get all riled fer sweatin' 'ithout a break in 
sight, 
But — yew fergit it when it's time fer eats. 
Now toast an' egg an' coffee's 'bout all the av'rage 
feller 
Kin*eat fer^breakfas' in a swelt'rin' town; 
But gosh all blinkin' blazes, yew ain't no clerk nor 
teller, 
Yew gotta hev reel feed, an' wash it down. 



30 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

So in yew go t' the kitchen, a room o' quite some 
size; 
Yew grab a cheer an' haul it up t' yer place; 
Matildy 'n' Sophy 's servin', while Laury fans the 
flies, 
An' Bill he mumbles thru a form o' grace. 
I wish thet I was able ter dew Bill's Laury jestice, 

An' tell the diff'runt things she's set afore ye; 
But I'm ez fer from doin' thet 'ar ez east from west 
is, 
'N' I suttenly hev no desire ter bore ye. 

But ennyhow jes' listen: Pertaters mashed an' 
wavy; 
A bowl of yeller butter thick an' creamy; 
A plate o' spicy sassage with eggs fried in the 
gravy, 
An' chicken fricaseed, all hot an' steamy; 
A dish o' gravied dumplin's, an' one o' beans an' 
corn — 
Thet suckertash o' Laury's hits me hard! 
Her pickled beets is wonders, her slaw fresh ez 
the morn, 
Her passnips sweeter 'n frankinsense an' nard. 

An' then they's jams an' jellies, a fluffy heap o' 
bread, 
Hot corncake tew, 'f yew want it — which yew 
dew; 
A leaf o' curly lettis, or, if yew wish, a head; 

An' unyons raw, or peppered in a stew. 
An' when yew've et thru this 'ere a time or tew 
or so, 
An' drunk three cups o' coffee 'thout a sigh 



Laury's "Eats" 31 

(Ye never know it's chic'ry, an' ye never need ter 
know) , 
Then, by the Great Lord Harry, comes the pie! 

Two kinds at Laury's alters, an' a hunk o' cheese 
with it, 
An' top it off with do'nuts, milk, an' cake; 
Bill passes yew a teethpick, yew settle back a bit, 

An' reely think yew're gittin' wide awake. 
Wal, ye need thet kind o' fuel, 'cos farm work's 
tur'bel grillin', 
On freezy days or in a b'ilin' heat; 
It ain't farm life or workin', ez mos' fokes thinks, 
is killin' — 
It's when ye cain't git all ye want ter eat! 



XI 

Bill on Seth Watts 

gETH WATTS hed died, an' Bill was tellin' us 
Suthin' about 'im. Bill he'd be'n a bearer 't 
The funerel, an' now hed jes' got home, 
Hung up 'is Sunday clo'es an' derby hat, 
And on the way out tew the thrashin' enjin' 
Paid tribute to Seth's mem'ry. "Me an' him 
Hed deakin'd it up thar t' our church" — he 

jerked 
His head toward town — "for twenty years ter- 

gether. 
A right smart moodish feller Seth was, no 
Mistakin' thet; I've offen saw 't myself 
An' heerd 'is naybers tell. Some mornin's he 
Would git up with a feelin' he must jes' 
Be let alone an' not be ast ter dew 
One solitary thing by ennyone, 
No matter who. He tried Almiry (that's 
Mis' Watts) more'n she'd let on. I reckon tho' 
She didn't git ter onderstand him 's much 
She might; 'f she'd left 'im be ontil he come 
Around hisself, they'd both 'a' be'n all right; 
A hour or two o' sleep would fixt 'im up. 
But 'stid o'thet she 'peared ter feel a call 



34 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Ter hev him dew a reg'ler mess of chores 
On them 'ar mornin's. Wal, he'd stew an' sw'ar, 
An' kick the dawg, an' onct He said he's goin' 
Ter quit an' jes' go off — but knowed he wouldn't. 
Almiry'd cry an' Seth would cuss, an' then 
They'd shet the'r lips an' never say a word 
Fer mebbe quite a spell, when suthin' funny 
(It might 'a' be'n most ennything) would up 
An' happen; Seth would snort, Almiry'd giggle, 
An' thet would end his moodin'. That 'ar way 
O' doin' 's a hull lot better, 'pears ter me, 
Then fer a man ter never hev no chanct 
Ter hev a mood, 'f 'e wants ter, 'n know 't will 

prob'ly 
Work out all right somehow." 

Bill stopped a minnit, 
'NT seen 'im kind o' turn an' look 't the house, 
An' knowed what he was thinkin' better'n if 
He'd said it plum ri't out. His crows-feet showed 
Up awful plain. Bimeby I seen 'im grin: 
'T s'pose yew've noticed lots o' fokes, when one 
The fambly's daid, sez funny things about 
Tm — funny 'cos yew knowed the one diseased 
Yerself, an' seen right thru their line o' talk. 
I like ter weigh fokes on a human scale, 
Daid or alive. It ain't onkind ter size 
'Em up fer what they was, onless they's jes' 
Plain or'n'ry trash, an' then it ain't wuth w'ile; 
I'd ruther keep my mouth shet 'n' let 'em go. 



Bill on Seth Watts 35 

But reely human fokes thet hez good p'ints 
An' bad all mixed tergether — like Seth was — 
I cain't see why we try ter make 'em out 
Ez hevin' be'n perfecshun; 'tain't the trewth. 
I heerd Almiry 'smornin' 'fore the fun'rel 
Say this ter one the naybers thar, sez she: 
'Seth never said no ha'sh or hasty word 
In all 'is life ter me,' an' bust out cry'n'. 
Jest then she ketched my eye — I dunno how 
It was, I reck'n she sensed the laff inside 
O' me, 'n' we both looked over t' whar Seth laid — 
She knowed me 'n' Seth was purty clost — 'n' I'm 

sure 
She ha'f expected he would set ri't up 
An' look at her, fer he could never stand 
Fer no Saphiry stuff, 'n' Almiry knowed it. 
She quit her takin' on, an' carr'd herself 
So ca'm but wownded like, it made me swaller. 
I wouldn't give a dam" — his minister 
Sez Bill kin carry off those kind o' words 
The niftiest he ever heerd fer deakins — 
"Fer enny man 'bout who thet pious kind 
O' rot might possibly be trew. They ain't 
Sich people nohow, leastways not in this 
'Ere Skillet deestric'. . . Wal, boys, here we 

be." 



XII 

The Katydid 

SKEETERS pest'rin', 

Bites a-fest'rin', 
Merc'ry ninety-four; 

Feelin' groggy, 

Piller soggy, 
Makes me tur'bel sore. 

Rollin', groanin', 

Tossin', moanin', 
Hotter 'n eggs a-fryin'; 

Houn' dawg yellin', 

Jack-ass hellin', 
Little Willy cryin'. 

Nerves a-tingle; 

Ev'ry single 
Nightish critter tootin'; 

Hosses champin', 

Cattle stampin', 
Even stars a-shootin' ! 

Air is deader 

Than a medder 
Whar they's be'n a fire 

East all smoky, 

Moon-rise poky — 
Julluk out o' mire. 



38 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Night's a horrer; 

Like ter borrer 
Bill's ol' "make-'em-peep;" 

Shoot the dam things 

So's ter ca'm things — 
Git fi' minnits' sleep. 

Nature's planned it 
Tho, 'n' I'll stand it— 

'Cept one thing, by helium! 
That's thet rawcus 
Hoppin' jaw-cuss 

Out on yender ellum. 

Pesky thing 
Doosn't sing; 
Line o' talk 
'S jist a squawk. 
Rubs its wings an' 
Thinks it sings an' 
Knocks my wits 
All ter bits; 
Never quits 
Throwin' fits 
All the night 
Till it's light; 
No beseechin' 
Stops its screechin'; 
Filin' saws, 
Grindin' jaws, 
Windin' clocks, 
Gratin' locks — 
'S music 'side 
That 'ar snide! 



The Katydid 39 

Change yer toon, yew 
Mis'bel loon, yew! 

Mos'ly threes; 
Shift it, please! 

"She did! 
She hid 
Her lid, 
She did!" 

Now 'e's say'n' 
Threes again: 

"Yes she did, 
Yes she did, 
Yes she, yes she, 
Yes she did!" 

Gosh a' mity, 
I'm mos' flighty. 

Insect ass, 
Scrapin' brass, 
Co'se I know 
She done so. 
Now yew kill her. 
(Hang this piller!) 

Thar, thet's better; 
Hope yew've let 'er 
Die the death; 
Save yer breath, 
Mornin's here, 
Breakfas' near. 
***** 

Durn 'er hide, 
Katy's died! 



XIII 

Bill's Vote 

{November, 1916) 

I AST Bill lately how 'e's goin ter vote. 

We stood thar in the feed lot handin' out 

Ter gruntin' Durocs ears o' yeller corn. 

Bill kep' 'is mouth shet longer 'n I could wait, 

An' so I ast again: "Yo' ain't decided?" 

He looked right smart like he was goin' ter laff, 

But didn't, tho' a smile loafed 'round 'is eyes. ' 

"It's kind o' mixy, true 's yew live," he sez, 

A-pokin' with 'is boot a big fat sow 

(Who'd swiped a ear from one the little runts) 

Until she squealed an' cussed at 'im in what 

Bijl calls Hog Latin, ran a rod, an' sulked 

Fi' seconds, then snook back ter snitch some 

more — 
"Yer caint tell nothin' 'bout a feller's vote 
This year. Take ol' Doc Garner— demicrat 
Sence 'sixty-nine, but sez he's goin' ter vote 
Agin th' administration 'cos he jes' 
Caint stand fer no ameeba (mebbe yew 
Know what thet is) fer president. An' then 
Thar's Peleg Towle 'at runs the paper here — 
Oak-ribbed republican sence I dunno — 
He sez we'd orter be almity glad 
We ain't ter war, an' he do' want no ice-berg 
A-settin' on no Congress' back door steps 
A-try'n' ter hatch no batch o' tory laws! 



42 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Wal, thar ye be; it's julluk thet all 'round; 

A feller's looks don't give away 'is vote. 

I lister guess yer polytics by how 

Ye spoke an' acted, but I caint this year." 

"I sure don't git yoors, Bill, from ennything 

I've heerd ye say all Fall," I sez; "How 'bout it?" 

An' then 'e come ri't out: "I s'pose I might's 

Well tell ye how it is. Yew know I come 

From down Mizzoura way. My Paw's relidjun 

Was votin' demicratic ev'ry chanct 

He got, an' never nothin' else. I reck'n 

I kind o' got thet feel myself, an' no 

Amount o' reason 'pears ter knock it out. 

I've heerd the argyments from A to Izzard, 

An' reely, I'll admit I ain't no use 

Fer empty words an' hifalutin' guff 

'Bout war prosperity, humanity, 

An' stuff like thet, an' layin' down like pups 

When some one hollers loud an' suddin like. 

But when I think o' Paw, an' Colonel Sims, 

An' all them early days at Gravel Point — 

Wal, I'm agin what I am for, that's all! 

I'll give ye now my reelest reason why 

I'm votin' demicratic come next week. 

I ain't no pessimist, but I beleeve 

This here U. S. hez got ter git ri' down 

Ter brass tacks soon or late. We gotta hev 

A awful mess o' trubble, go thru fire 

An' brimstun, hell, an' purgatory 'fore 

We'll ever 'mount ter shucks; an' I b'en thinkin' 

The quickest way ter git us thar 's ter vote 

The way I'm goin' ter." 



XIV 

Bill's "Risin' " 

(^)NE mornin' Bill he took 'is chair at table, 
'N' I seen 'is right hand almos' kivered 
With bandages, an' 'e wan't scassly able 
Ter eat — jes' set an* kind o' shivered. 

I didn't say en'thing till I hed et 

'Mos' threw my breakfas'; then I said, 

"I reckin, Bill, yew better quit an' let 
Us fix ye up, or go ter bed." 

Thet hand o' his was awful red, an' swoll'd 
Ez big 's a baby colt's hind legs; 

The fingers on 't looked whitish blew an' cold, 
An' stuck up like ol' harness pegs. 

He suffered dretful, thet was plain enuff, 
Tho' Laury 'd doctered 'im with messes, 

An' polticed 'im with ev'ry kind o' stuff, 
Horse linyments an' warm compresses. 

But no, he wouldn't go ter bed; he 'd see 
The dum thing threw 'f it took a week; 

We might ez well, he said, jes' leeve 'im be, 
He wouldn't show no yeller streak. 

An' so he wandered 'round all day a-nussin' 
Thet fest'rin' dead man's hand o' his; 

He said it wan't no use ter dew no cussin' — 
The more he swore the more it riz. 



44 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

By night the pain hed drove 'im almos' wild, 

'N' is arm was big's a water oak; 
It wouldn't took much then ter git 'im riled, 

Or skeer 'im stiff he's goin' ter croak. 

But still he'd grin — tho' co'se I knowed he 's 
fakin'— 

An' say he didn't give a dam fer 
A thing 'cept t' ev thet "risin' " quit its achin'; 

An' then he 'd sniff 't a bottl' o' camfer. 

At last I sez, an' tapped 'im on the wrist, 

"Ef I was yew I'd chuck fer fair 
Them soaky puddin' rags, an' give yer fist 

Jes' antyskeptick wash an' air." 

Thet 's all I said, an' left 'im at 'is door 
The mos' bedraggles' 'pearin' cuss, 

Julluk a houn' dawg all chawed up an' sore, 
'At looks he 's licked an' feels it wuss. 

But on the quiet Bill 'e tried thet wash, 
An' said nex' day the pain had eased 

So much thet reely it felt good, buggosh, 

Like some ol' wheel thet 's jes' be'n greased. 

I never seen a man more chipperer; 

'T was plain he 'd busted thet thar "risin"'; 
An' then, jessif he 'd be'n the minister, 

He started in a-moralizin' : 

" It 's ruther cu'r'us, aint it, how a fuller 
Jes' natchelly falls back on notions 

Thet long ago he 'd orter t'run down suller; 
I mean them poltices an' lotions. 



Bill's "Risin' " 45 

Now I was raised ter b'leeve I 'd gotta take 
My med'cin, grin an' bear it, when 

Dizease or death, misfortune, pain or ache 
Ketched holt, fer thet 's the way o' men; 

An' thet is mos'ly trew; but here in farmin' 

I find ye don't git ha'f so leery 
'Bout buckin' fate, 'f ye'r' ont' them funny 
varmin 

They call 'basilly' or 'backteery.' 

I hev an idee 't out o' life we 'd git 
Much more o' honey 'n' less o' wax, 

Ef we depended less on native wit 
An' more on sientifick fac's." 



XV 

Calamitous Days 

T seems ter be the human lot o' man 
Onct in a while ter hev a day 
When ev'rything goes wrong, an' nary plan 
Works out at all in enny way. 



I 



It's sure the stranges' thing how succumstances 
At times combines ter git yer goat; 

When grinnin' Fate jes' mocks at ye, an' dances 
'Ter jangled fiddlin' on one note. 



Wal, thet's how 'twas the time Bill hed 'is "risin 
'Peared like the farm was on the blink; 

An' I kin tell ye 't wouldn't be'n supprisin' 
Ef even Bill hed took ter drink. 

It come right at the bizzy season; Bill 
Was all laid up an' couldn't work; 

An' when he wan't around, ez co'sethey will, 
The help would soljer, loaf an' shirk. 

They'd be'n so slow 'bout gittin' in the corn 
On "Thirty-one"— the "Lower bottom"— 

Thet when 'twas drown'd an' scorched, I could 
'a' sworn 
Thet Bill was mad enuff ter shot 'em. 



» .»» 



48 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

An' then we found 't th' alfalfy 'n' wheat hed 
heaved 

So bad thet most of it would die; 
With wheat a dollar ninety Bill was peeved, 

An' 'taint no job ter figger why. 

An' next the forty west in alsike clover, 

A field thet's purty gin'ly dry, 
A heavy rain hed kivered almos' over 

With water two three inches high. 

Soon after Lon come in an' sez ter me: 
"Yew better tell Paw 'bout the rape; 

It's daid or ain't come up; I reckon he 
Do' know it's in sech awful shape." 

He did tho', 'n' when I told 'im, give a grunt, 

An' looked it 'stid o' savin' it. 
Bill's mity strong on puttin' up a front; 

He seldom r'ars an' champs 'is bit. 

The garden truck was et by Willie's pony; 

01' Jess got drunk on apple-jack; 
The poults begun ter droop, an' acted phony; 

An' Barney's glanders all come back. 

I reck'n 'twas Willie 't throwed them kittens int' 

The sistern, so 't we all took sick. 
(I seen Bill's face was like a chunk o' flint 

Ez 'e chased Willie down t' the crick!) 

The telephone was crazy — jes' made clicks; 

The flies was thicker 'n 'Gypshun plaigs; 
The kitchen door was off an' wouldn't fix, 

An' suthin' sucked all Laury's aigs. 



Calamitous Days 49 

Then pink-eye ketched the heffers an' the ca'ves, 
An' some the critters lost the'r sight; 

Fer fear yew'll think thet things was goin' by 
ha'ves, 
The lightnin' hit the barn one night 

An' burnt it clean ter blazes, 'long with ten 

Or twenty ton o' hay an' straw, 
An' knocked the stuffin' out o' "Herford Ben," 

Whose peddygree was long 's the law. 

With Sunday come a quiet restin' spell; 

We needed it, by Jethro, tew, 
Fer scorchy weather 'n' rotten luck is hell 

On fellers try'n' ter "see it threw," 

Ez Bill is allers sayin' ; them's 'is words 
When things is wrong an' nothin' 's right; 

When Fortune's milk jes' turns ter whey an' 
curds, 
An' spiles yer spir't-yel appetite. 



The fambly 'd went ter church — ter hear 'bout 
Moses 

An' how 'e fit all kinds o' luck; 
While me an' Bill jes' lolled an' dug our noses 

Deep int' the fresh green grass an' muck. 

I sez, "Bill, yew remind me some o' Job, 
Fer yew aint cussed the fates an' quit, 

Like lots o' fellers would on this 'ere globe; 
I sh' think yew'd cause enuff fer it." 



50 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

He ups an' sez, not ans'rin' me direc' 
But far away, 'z 'e sometimes done: 

"Nothin' 's wuth while onless ye resk yer neck- 
Ter shoot a owl by day 's no fun — 

Ter raise a mess o' beef 's a reel man's job — 
'T 's a bully gamble growin' fodder — 

Caint git no corn 'ithout ye take the cob — 
Alfalfy '11 allers hev its dodder — " 



XVI 

The Pet Calf 

HEY, Whitey, here's a good fat ear, 

It's 'mong the last ye'll git; 
Come on now, lemme rub yer nose — 

Ye'r' lookin' tol' bul fit. 

I'm gonna ship ye off terday, 

Yew be'n here long enuff ; 
I s'pose 'f yew knowed what I'm a-sayin' 

Yew'd think 'twas kind o' ruff 

Same's I dew, 'n' I'm a-tryin' hard 

Ter make ye onderstand; 
Tho' p'r'aps it's jest ez well ye don't — 

Hi-i-i! What ye doirf V my hand! 

I've nussed ye sence ye fust was dropped- 

Ye don't remember, dew ye? 
I've heerd ye blat a many times 

An' come a-runnin' tew ye. 

Yew didn't hev yer mother long — 
I went t' the crick ter fetch 'er — 

"Four Mile" was up, an' I's afraid 
The flood might prob'ly ketch 'er. 



52 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

It hed, fer when she'd tried ter cross 

Ter yew on t'other bank, 
She got all tangled in the drift, 

Drownded right thar, an' sank. 

I brung ye up t' the house, 'n' the gals 

They cosseted an' fed ye, 
An' ever sence they's be'n some one 

Ter fetch ye slops an' bed ye. 

An' now look at ye! Ha'f a ton 

O' helpless bone an' beef; 
A livin' stack o' hay an' grain; 

A critter boun' fer grief. 

I dassent tell the gals ye'r' goin' — 

I couldn't, gosh a'mity; 
They'll miss ye tur'bul — fer a spell — 

An' bawl for "little Whitey." 

^ *|» *p 3f* 5|C JfC 

Thar's Lon — he's come ter round ye up. 

Goo' by, ol' chap — O darn! 
They's suthin' 't I hev clean fergot — 

I reck'n I'll gw'int' the barn. 



XVII 

Bill on War 

{February, 1917) 

MY Land, 'twas cold thet night I set with Bill 

Around the iron stove het up red hot 

An' Bill a-stokin' on't with all 'is mite. 

He calls the room 'is "offis;" three four cheers, 

A bench, farm jurnels layin' on a stand, 

Some books on cattle-feedin' — Bill's he's up 

Ter date on all thet stuff, tho' he aint hed 

No the'ry trainin' in them farmin' schools — 

A book on ' 'Soils" — the same ez siles, I s'pose — 

A walnut seckertry, some plants o' Laury's, 

A lot o' calendars — with smartish women 

In droopy longish gowns a-ridin' proud 

High-sperr'ted colts along a river whar 

A chap is ketchin' traouts ez fast ez he 

Kin sling a worm, or mebbe it's a fly — 

An' Bill's ol' double bar'l behind the door. 

I've offen gassed with Bill in thet thar room 

O' his when fokes was all a-bed 'n' asleep. 

The frost was thicker'n cream on all the winders; 

Occazh'nully they'd be a pane 'thout none, 

Or kivered only ha'f, an' 'f I looked out, 

Ez onct or twict I done, I seen a sight 

Thet made me clean fergit how cold it was: 

A sea o' white 'way down ter "Thirty-One," 

With waves o' drifts piled ev'ry here an' thar; 

An' still — Jerushy! Still's a mounting top 



54 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Up thar amongst them craters on the moon. 
The only noise we heerd inside, 'cept co'se 
The fire, was snappin' clabboards on the house, 
Like pistol shots thet kind o' made us jump. 
"It's twenty-six below," sez Bill, ez he 
Throwed on another mess o' coal; "I reck'n 
We'll need them extry quilts ternight. I'm glad 
It's be'n a-snowin' some on thet 'ar field 
O' wheat this week; they wouldn't be no crop 
This spring if 't hedn't. Caint remember when 
It's ever be'n so cold afore here'bouts. 
Reck'n Laury's plants '11 hev ter be brung up 
A leetle closter ter the stove; thet thar 
Jerainyum looks jessif 'twas fros' bit now. 
Yew look like yew was tew," he sez, an' grinned. 
"I be," I sez, "behind, but barbecued 
In front." 

An' then I mentioned cazhool like 
The war a-hangin' ov'r us. Bill kep' still 
At first, 'n' I let 'im; then bimeby, julluk 
He's talkin' tew 'isself, he sez reel grave, 
"Eft comes, 'twill be the genooinest war 
Our fokes hez ever saw; an' we're about 
Ez ready for't 'z a fat prize Berksheer barrer 
Would be ter fight a bunch o' timber wolves. 
O' co'se this here U. S. hez got back-bone, 
But 'pears ter me it's — what's thet word? I seen 
It t'other day an' looked it up — O yes, 
It's atrofide. . . We gotta train ri' down 
Ter razor-backs afore we're enny good . 
We're all tew pussy 'n' prizey 'n' prosp'rus like 
Ter tech a wil'cat even with a fork. . . . 
'F a hoss hez won blue ribbons to a fair, 
He prob'ly caint kick ha'f so long 'z a scrub 



Bill on War 55 

Thet's hard ez nails an' workin' ev'ry day. . . . 

An' then agin I think we're like "01' Ben"; 

Yew 'member him — ez gentle ez a kitten, 

An' big an' fat, good-natured, easy goin', 

Tho' onct 'n a while they's fire in 'is eye. 

They want no doubt thet he could lick 'is weight 

Twict over, but he never knowed it till — 

Yew prob'ly don't recall the time thet young 

An' fi'ry furrin bull o' Otto's bust 

Clean threw three fences jes' ter hev a crack 

At Ben. I didn't git thar till 'twas over, 

But heerd consid'bul 'bout it from the naybers. 

They said the younger critter kind o' toyed 

With Ben a spell, an' Ben was sort o' dazed, 

But kep' a-goin' not scassly knowin' what 

'Twas all about; then later he got sore, 

'Is dander an' 'is blood come up, an' say — 

The way he whaled thet hateful little cuss. . . 

It took 'im all day tew, an' not a soul 

Dast git up clost ter watch 'em fight it out. . . 

01' Ben was stannin' kind o' groggy when 

I come ter git 'im, 'n' ev'ry little while 

He'd stop an' paw an' beller 'n' lick 'is flank 

Like he'd be'n hit right smart; but he was all 

Right thar, 'n' I hed ter laff. . . . They 

brung a pair 
O' hosses up an' hauled the other beast 
Somew'eres. . . We never hed no better bull 
Then Ben was after thet; he wouldn't look 
Fer trubble, an' somehow 'r 'nother trubble 

seemed 
Ter not be look'n' fer him. It done 'im good, 
We thought, an' thet's my /dee 'bout this war." 
"But how 'bout Lon," I sez, "ef war should come?" 



56 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Thet ketched 'im hard, an' I was sorry 't I 

Hed ast 'im sich a techy question, 'cos 

I knowed thet Lon was all they was ter go, 

Bill's bigges' boy — the rest was either gals 

Or els tew young — an' Bill was allers jellus 

O' Lon, like heffers be with their firs' ca'f. 

I changed the subjec', said how cold it was, 

An' stomped aroun,' an' 'lowed I'd go ter bed. 

I said "good-night" an' got ha'f way up stairs, 

When Bill he give a little cough behind 

An' blowed 'is nose, 'n' 'is words was drowndy 

like: 
u Vd see 7 he went." An' then a gust o' wind 
Put out my light, 'n' I thought how lucky 'twas, 
Altho' I never would 'a' looked at Bill 
When he was that 'a' way. 



XVIII 
Treed 

'^PWAS a Sunday in March ez we set on a log 

In a break in the woods, whar the crick 
makes a jog, 
An' hez et int' the bank an' up under the mill, 
Thet the story herewith was related by Bill. 

"Years ago, forty odd, wild hogs was ez thick 

In these 'ere Skillet bottoms ez 'cats' in the crick. 

They follered the mast (tho' I ain't meanin' 

shippin'), 
An' 'long in the Fall got ez fat ez a pippin. 

My Paw uster hunt 'em with dawgs on the run, 
So 'z ter git us our pork 'fore the Winter begun; 
An' many's the time I've heerd 'im tell how 
He hed fit with or run from a perky ol' sow. 

Fer them pigs was mean custumers, give 'em a 

chance, 
An' a boar with 'is tushes could rip up yer pants 
A dum sight more quicker 'n a pirate crew, 
An' 'e'd take a hull lot o' yer leg with it tew. 

One time they's a feller was huntin' 'is pork 
Somewhar over yender not fur from the Fork. 
Now they's fokes 'at's still livin' 'at '11 tell ye they 

know 
Thet what I'm a-tellin' ye reely was so. 



58 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

Wal, night come along an' 'e hedn't shot nuthin' , 
An* 'e got kind o' scary an' tho't 'e heerd suthin' ; 
So 'e turned an' 'e run like a stampeded steer 
Till 'is breathin' give out an' 'is legs felt queer. 

They was only one thing fer the poor cuss ter dew, 
An thet was ter shin up a tree by the 'slew' 
Whar 'e happened ter be; an' thet's what 'e done 
When 'e'd got 'is wind back an' hed throwed down 
'is gun. 

He grabbed a young hick'ry with both han's an' 

feet, 
An' 'e dumb an' 'e dumb till 'e found a good seat. 
Thar 'e rested a hour a-huggin' the tree 
Till at last 'e decided 'twas safe ter work free. 

But 'e couldn't giddown — stuck right whar 'e was 
A-wond'rin' wottell 's ailin' graverty's laws! 
He shoved an' 'e squeezed an' 'e sweat with a will, 
An' 'is legs was woun' tight round thet hickory, 
till— 

Dog tater my black cat's kittens! — he found 
He hed be'n settin' thar all the while on the 
ground!" 



XIX 

Bill on Tobacco 

T LIT my pipe, an' set with Bill a spell 

■*■ Out on the porch. The sun hed jes' went 

down; 
The hens an' chickens, 'thout no 'parent aim, 
Was gravitatin' towards the hen-house door; 
The poults was floppin' int' the apple tree, 
An' Zony come acrost the dewy yard 
A-bringin' in the evenin' mess o' milk. 
'Twas peaceful like, an' I was tuckered out, 
An' thet thar corn-cob tasted pow'ful good. 
I hedn't hed a smoke sence noon, an' co'se 
I'd be'n a-cravin' on't sence supper's over, 
An' kind o' grudged ter hev ter gwout an' feed 
The colts 'fore settin' down an' lightin' up. 
But now the work was done, an' thar I was 
Ez comf'tabul an' ca'm ez I could be, 
Suckin' an' blowin' great big gobs o' smoke, 
An' strangulatin' three four hundred flies 
Thet got the'rsel's all settled fer the night. 
Bill picked 'is teeth ez quiet ez a lamb, 
An' didn't make no sound, 'cept 'cazhnully, 
When one my puffs would veer agin 'is face, 
He'd cough an' bresh the smoke off with 'is hand. 
I'd never saw Bill smoke, or chaw, or "dip," 
Sence I hed knowed 'im, tho' I'd offen wondered 
Jes' why it was thet he denied hisself 
About the bigges' comfort they is goin'. 
I blowed a bunch o' smoke rings threw the screen, 



6 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

An' watched 'em melt away in bluish mist. 

Then I inhaled, an' filled my chist up full 

Till I could feel the nickerteen soak in 

Clean to my toes, an' brace me up all over. 

I fairly wallered in thet smoke, by jing! 

At last — 'twas gittin' right smart darkish, 'n' we 

Could hear the snipe a-callin' in the fiel', 

An' all the western sky was brownish pink — 

Bill ups an' sez — an' I could see 'is grin — 

" 'Pears like y'er' gittin' sight o' comfort out 

O' thet thar shag, an' I aint blamin' on ye, 

Tho' onct 'n a while it sort o' turns my stummick. 

What is't, 'Farmefs Delight'?" "Nope, 'Dago's 

Joy' ", 
I sez, a-rammin' in another charge. 
I got it goin', an' after while he sez: 
"Looks like it might be; 'f yew kin smoke thet 

stuff, 
I reckin yew're a smoker, an' would stand 
Fer ennything from burdock ter hoss-redish, 
Or tan-bark, blacksmith's parin's, stable sweep- 

in's, 
An' sich like stuff they put in them thar kind 
O' boxes 't yew got thar." "Aw, quit yer josh," 
I sez, "I've smoked all them one time or 'nother, 
An' know the diff'runce. This 'ere smoke is reel 
Terbacker; guess I know." "Terbacker nuthin' ", 
Sez 'e; "smells more ter me like some ol' buf- 
Lo robe hed ketched afire." An' then 'e laffed. 
Ef ennybody else but Bill hed poked 
Thet kind o' fun at me, I might o' got 
A leetle riled; but somehow 'r 'nuther 'taint 
No use ter let yerself git hot around 
Yer neck when Bill throws in his leetle hooks. 



Bill on Tobacco 61 

Yew hev ter laff in spite o' ev'ry thing. 
An' so I cooled ri' down an' sez reel quiet: 
"Ef yew knowed enny thing about terbacker, 
Ef yew's a smoker, V hed the feelin' on 't, 
Yew'd quit remarkin' things like that 'a' one. 
[ bet yew never even smoked corn-silk, 
Rattan, hay-seed, sweet fern, an' baby stuff 
Like that, thet cubs begins on when they're smart. 
I tell ye yew do' know nuthin' about it." 
I tho't I'd fixed 'im, fer a spell at least, 
Fer 'e kep' still, an' hummed reflective like. 
Bimeby he went 't the door an' hawked an' spit, 
Come back, an' set, an' coughed — fer I hed puffed 
A lot o' smoke right towards 'is empty cheer — 
An' kind o' choky sez: "I s'pose yew think 
Yew've sized me up correc'. I'll tell ye suthin': 
Yew do' know no more 'n nuthin' what yer sayin' ; 
A rabbit knows more 'bout terbacker 'n yew 
Compared ter me." "W'y, Bill, I never seen 
Ye smoke," I sez, "nor chaw, in all these years." 
"Wal,that don't mean," he sez, " 't I never did. 
When I was a young feller, I begun 
Ter smoke an' chaw like all the other han's, 
Only I done it more 'n they did. I'd hev 
Ter hev my chaw ez soon ez I was out 
O' bed, an', 'cept at meals, I chawed all day 
An' part the night, an' smoked the rest the time. 
I've woke up many nights an' lit a pipe. 
Ez time went on I kep' a-gittin' wuss. 
Laury, she said my mouth was like a sewer 
When 't wa'n't a fact'ry chimbley; an' I noticed 
The things I et wa'n't relishin'; I couldn't 
Tell pepper-grass from pie, or Woostersheer 
From coffee; eatin' wa'n't no fun no more. 



62 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

An' then I found I couldn't git terbacker 

Nowheres near strong enough. I tried all kinds 

From fine-cut down ter Black Twist Nigger Head, 

A leetle mite o' which will make a hog 

So sick he cain't eat nuthin' fer a week, 

An' like enough he'll die. I give a mule 

A piece onct, I remember, jes' fer fun, 

The handiest feller with 'is heels we hed. 

Say! Soon's the pizen got ter work inside, 

Thet cuss begun ter ram around an' beller 

Like he was givin' birth 't a pair o' twins, 

A thing no or'nary mule aint s'posed ter dew. 

An' then 'e up an' kicked the barn door out, 

Le'pt over coupla gates an' started off 

Like them thar Gadarenian swine yew've heerd 

About in Scriptur'. Reck'n he's runnin' yit, 

Leastways we never seen 'im ar'terwards. 

Wal, I begun ter color up, until 

I looked some 'ut like summer crook-necks dew 

Dead-ripe in August. Appetite 'bout gone, 

An' nervous ez a new-broke colt hitched up 

Ter plow. An' still I chawed an' smoked an' 

chawed, 
An' couldn't seem ter git enough. Black Twist 
Ter me was like a peece o' straw ter yew. 
I scoured the kentry stores; the strongest brands 
Would satisfy no more 'n molasses would. 
O' co'se yew understand I wa'n't no slave 
Ter thet thar weed ; I only hed ter hev it, 
That's all. (They's fokes 'at thinks they ain't no 

diff'runce 
Atween them two idees; we know they is.) 
One day a pedlar come along, an' Laury 
She bought a coupla packages o' pills 



Bill on Tobacco 63 

'T the feller said was 'guaranteed' ter knock 

Terbacker habits higher 'n wheat, an' cure 

The most 'invertebrate' — or some sich word — 

Terbacker user in the world. She kep' 

It dark, an' fed them pellets on the sly 

Ter me in stuff I et. But 'twa'n't no use; 

I kep' on chawin' more an' more. It might 

'A' made some diff'runce, p'raps, ef I hed knowed 

What she was up tew. Ginally yew hev 

Ter know about sich things ter hev 'em dew 

Ye enny good at all. 

Wal, things was thet 
'A' way when yew fust come. Yew 'member when 
I met ye up 't the deepo yew was smokin' 
Thet thar same shag stuff yew're a-smokin' now; 
I ketched a whiff or tew — I never told 
Ye 'bout it 'fore — but 'twas enough; it done 
What nuthin' else hed done fur thirty year. 
I haint bit off a single chaw sence that, 
Or smoked a whiff, so help me Moses Pratt!" 

When I'd collected all my senses back, 
Bill he hed slid awav an' s:one ter bed. 



an 



XX 

The New Year's Turkey 

\\JE all hed come ter Bill's ter spend the day, 
VV New Year's it was, an' Bill hed shaved, 

'Is hair, an' greased 'is boots, an looked ez gay 
'Z a feller kin in clo'es thet ain't be'n siled. 

"I reck'n I didn't tell ye 'bout this fowl," 
He sez, an' stopped 'is carvin' fer a bit, 
While Laury looked ez if she's goin' ter scowl, 
An' tried by signs ter steer 'im off of it. 

"This feller didn't seem ter hev no sex; ( 

Ha'f hen, ha'f Tom he was; he'd go a-whangin 
Like Toms do, tails spread, wings a-draggin', necks 
All druggled up, an' great red beads a-hangin ; 

"An' then they's other times he'd sneak away 

Hen fashun like, scratch up a nest, an' set, 

Tho' them kind cain't lay aigs, ye know— whad 

say: — 
He seen thet Laury 'peared ter be 'n a sweat 

Ter hev 'im quit 'is talk an' go on carvin'. 
He done a leg an' wing, an' sliced the breast, 
An' got the stumn' ready fer the sarvin', 
An' then begun again: "I found 'is nest 



66 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

"Las' June — we'd missed 'im fer a month or so — 

Off in a ol' forsooken suller; thar 

'E set ez thin 's a rail. Bet yew dunno 

What he'd be'n settin' on so long, by tar!" 

"Will, won't ye hurry up? The fokes is waitin', ' 
An' then she tried ter start a line o' talk. 
But 't want no use; Bill sez: "Ez I was statin', 
Each time we'd try ter shoo 'im off he'd balk, 

"An' wouldn't stir; then 1 felt under 'im, 

Reel careful like, an' say, yew wouldn't b'leeve it, 

But" — Laury now was lookin' kind o' grim, 

An' told 'im t' either carve thet bird or leave it. 

But Bill kep' on regardless: "Next I see 
O' him he's leadin' round a yeller goslin'! 
(We et it Chris'mas day). — Now what gits me, 
An' sets my wits ter bilin' an' a sozzlin,' 

"Is how the cuss from this could hatch a goose!" 
An' Bill held up a smooth, worn, chiny knob, 
Thet from some door hed long sence broken loose. 
"That's what I took from under this ol' squab!" 

"A Happy New Year, Bill," I sez; "D'ye mind 
'F I ast ye fer thet Tope's Nose' thing behind?" 



XXI 

The Picture 

A PITCHUR of a feller hangin' up 

^ In thet 'ar little room o' mine at Bill's 

Hez offen set my wond'rin' works ter goin'. 

He's stannin' on a stun verandy like, 

A oldish sort o' man with streaky hair, 

Up high whar 'e kin see some ways away, 

'N' 'is clo'es is suthin' like the ones I seen 

In Bill's 'lustrated fambly Bible, hung 

All over 'irn in drapish kind o' folds, 

An' jes' some in-soles fassen'd on 'is feet 

With funny strings a-runnin' threw 'is toes. 

They's trees an' scen'ry out in front, green fiel's, 

A rollin' hill or so, a crick, a bunch 

O' little houses whar they's fokes at work, 

An' things looks peeceful, like they do here'bouts 

In this 'ere Skillet deestric' in Jooly. 

But back o' all them things yew seem ter see 

A wall o' clouds a-fencin' on 'em in, 

An' yew cain't tell 'f they's mount'ins, sea, or what 

A-layin' off behind, it's all so dim. 

Afore I've blowed the light out menny nights 

I've looked at thet thar chap, an' almos' tho't 

I knowed what he was sensin', 'cos I seen 

T' 'e hed a far-off look, an' sort o' scrunched 

'Is shoulders 'zif 'e'd clean fergot hisself. 

One night in early Joon Bill come t' my room 
Ez I was goin* ter bed, 'n' I ast 'im, "Bill," 



68 Idylls o the Skillit Fork 

I sez, "thet feller up thar gits me goin'; 
Yew got a idee what 'e's thinkin'? 'Pears 
Ter me he's fig'rin' what it's all about, 
Same 's me an' yew does sometimes when we're 
'lone." 
Bill 'lows 'e ain't no pote, but fust I knowed 
He ups an' gits the foll'rin' off 'is chist, 
An' damfino 'f 'e made it up hisself, 
Or got it some'r's outen readin' books: 

"I'm specker latin' on the drift 

0' things I gotta face. 
Mos' ginally they ain't no rift 

In all them clouds o' space 
Thet seems ter narrer in my view 
An' shet the sky from me an' yew. 

11 They was one onct tho' — when I's young, 

An' never dreamt o' trouble, 
Jes' whissled, hollered, played, an' sung, 

Nor knowed the hay from stubble. 
What was it ripped them clouds apart, 
An' let the light shine on my heart? 

"The kids they do' know what it means 
Thet ray thet perkles threw, 
An' makes 'em reely kings an' queens, 

Like I was onct an' yew. 
But ain't it great ter feel thet way, 
An' not know hearts mus' break some day!" 

He quit, an' then went on: "I reck'n yew might's 
Well cut them thissels out termorrer south 
The barn. Goo' night." An' never changed 'is 
voice. 



XXII 
The Letter from Lon 

I. 

I never seen a man more prouder 'n Bill 
The mornin' Lon's first letter come from France. 
He'd et 'is breakfas' an' was harnessin', 
An' I stood at the trough a-wat'rin' Babe, 
When 'Viny come a-runnin' from the road 
A-wavin' suthin' white an' screamin' like 
She'd be'n attackted by a bunch o' bees. 
Co'se Laury heerd 'er bawlin', dropped a pie 
Ri't on the houn' dawg layin' by the door, 
An' started like a rabbit fer the yard. _ 
The houn' was scairt an' come a-bell'rin' out 
All plastered up with messy strawb'ry dough; 
The hens an' geese an' ducks got ri't on aidge 
An' nigh screeched all the'r haids off ez they run 
In ev'ry which way, 'n' yew'd 'a' tho't the hull 
Dum works was bust. But Bill he only grinned; 
He knowed what 'Viny hed, fer he hed heerd 
The pos'man's car come chuggin' up an' stop 
To our front gate. (Bill didn't hev ter look, 
Fer he kin sense by lis'nen' ev'ry car 
Thet goes by reg'lar — knows 'em by the'r rattle.) 
"... D'ye notice, Laury, 'pears ter me like 

this 
Envelop 's be'n a-monkeyed with somehow; 
They's suthin' plastered over it that sez — " 
An' then 'e eyed it closter, spellin' out 
The letters 'e hed cut threw with 'is 'nife. 



70 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

When Laury heerd the words she fired ri't up; 
"Now who'd ye s'pose would be so mean ez thet! 
He dassent give 'is reel name 'cos 'e's 'feerd 
He'd git suppeenylized fer tamperin' 
With other fokeses letters; so 'e ups 
An' calls hisself thet or'n'ry Sensure thing! 
Caint see no sense ter thet; tho' p'r'aps yew kin." 
She laffed one them thar cuttin'Jaffs o' her'n, 
An' sez ter Bill she's gotta hurry back 
T'the house an' 'tend t' some rewbarb she had left 
A-stewin' on the stove, an' will 'e fetch 
The letter in ez soon 's 'e's threw, an' leeve 
It lay whar she kin find it on her burer. 
'Fore Bill could ans'er she was runnin' up 
The kitchin steps, an we could hear 'er tell 
The houn' dawg what a newsunce he hed be'n 
Ter muss the floor all up with strawb'ry pie. 

II. 

Bill set a minnit quiet-like, an' then 

Begun t' onfold the letter. Sich a mess 

O' scraps, an' holes, an' long black blots an' things 

Yew never seen. I couldn't hardly keep 

From snik'rin'. Bill smiled tew, an' 'lowed it 

must 
'A' took more time an' trubble tew unwrite 
The letter 'n' 't did ter write it. Then 'e read, 
'Thout skippin' nuthin' 'cept the blots and cuts: 
"Deer Paw: Wal, here we be at (blank), 'n' I got 
Yoor letter 'n' Maw's, 'n' I sure was mity glad 
Ter hear thet yew all 's well an' gittin' 'long 
Fust rate. Us boys is all a-feelin' fine, 
An' say, we're goin' ter stick ter this 'ere job 
Till some of us at enny rate sees thet 
01' Potsdam Crocodile throw up the spunge. . ." 



The Letter from Lon 71 

(Thet's Bill hisself all over 'gin, thinks I; 
Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes' don't never quit. 
Bill's grate-grate-grampaw come from Summerset 
Some years 'fore Jorge the 1 1 1st. was kingin' it 
An' riled us so 't we hed ter revolute.) 
Bill mumbled on a spell, but said they wa'n't 
No sense in't 'cos' so much hed be'n chopped out. 
"I jedge," he sez, "it's places they come threw, 
An' ossifers he seen, an' whar they're goin,' 
An' sich." Then he begun again: "They's days, 
Paw, when I git ter thinkin' 'bout the farm, 
01' Whitey, Ben, the wood-lot whar me V yew 
Cu' down the bee tree Fall 'fore last an' got 
A ri't smart mess o' honey; 'simmon trees, 
Sunsets from our back porch, the furrers I 
Hev cut with our ol' walkin' plow — Oh Paw, 
Yew git me, don't ye! — then I come ri't back 
An' look acrost ter whar them Boshes be, 
An' think o' all the things they done an' still 
Ar' doin' ter make this airth a mizzery, 
Mad, desp'rit things drove on by them ez knows 
They're in daid 'rong but never'll give a dam 
'Bout lyin', killin' — then I know my job, 
'N' I'm glad I'm here, 'n' I know vew be — " 

Bill run 
T' the crib nigh whar we was, said he'd fergot 
Suthin,' 'n' I knowed 'e never would come back. 
I jes' set thar an' couldn't move. He tho't 
I must 'a' gone an' couldn't hear; I did 
Tho' — God, how I did leg it out o' thar! 
I went an' watered all the hogs fi' times; 
'F' they tasted salt in what they drunk, I know 
Whar't come from. 'N' all thet day I kep' a- 

sayin: 
"Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes' don't never quit!" 



XXIII 

The Drouth 

"DUGGOSH I never seen it dryer 'n 'tis 
-^ Ri't now down this 'ere Skillet way; 
It's scassly rained a drop sence 'long in Joon, 

An' gittin' dryer every day. 
We got our corn in early 'n May, an' seen 

It mos'ly drownded out, an' then 
We planted it onct more an' watched it grow 

An' stick out spiky leaves again. 
A little later Bill 'e sez ter me 

In one them joky little talks: 
"We'll hev ter git a ladder when Fall comes 

Ter reach the ears on them thar stalks." 
It shorely looked like that 'a' way ontil 

The drouth begun ter hit us hard, 
An' fennel, hog-weed, pusly, dock an' sich, 

An' even plantain in the yard — 
The sort o' stuff ye jes' cain't kill 'f ye try — 

Was withered wisps o' nothin' 't all. 
Ez time went on 'twas suthin' pretty fierce: 

Pitch sizzled on the hoss barn wall ; 
The road was jest a streak o' smoky dust, 

An' every time a lizzie passed 
The awf'lest clouds come rollin' int' the house, 

An' made us feel like bein' gassed; 
"Four Mile" was dry 's a sermon, caked an' 
cracked 

'Cept here an' thar a scummy pool, 



74 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

An' even in the deepest woods 'twas hot 

An' gaspy, stiflin', never cool; 
The wallers all dried out, an' flies was thick 

An' noisy ez a swarm o' bees; 
The cistern water got so brown an' warm 

Ter drink it meant ter drink diseese; 
An' all our corn — wal, git it straight — the corn 

Was like ol' Zekel's dream long sence, 
A valley full o' rattlin' skelertons 

Thet made ye skeered ter cross the fence ! 

"D'yew know what them thar sperrits sez?" ast 
Bill 

One moonlight night ez we was lookin' 
At thet poor "fired" crop o' ghosts without 

No reel intent o' goin' a-spookin'. 
"No, tell me, Bill," I sez, an' shivered some. 

"Wal, this tall yaller stalk ri't here 
He sez the dice was loaded from the start, 

Thet ol' Ma Nacher holds life dear 
Jest ez a whole; thet individyools aint 

No more account then knot-holes is. 
We plug ter drink o' life ez deep 's we kin, 

But what we git is mos'ly fizz." 



"I reck'n they want us up 't the house," I sez, 

The hair a-risin' from my neck, 
F'r I'd saw thet stalk wave all its arms an' nod, 

An' knowed Bill hed the dope correc' 



XXIV 

The Labor Situation 

DON'T hardly seem fair," said Bill with a 
hitch 

Tew his gallus — the other was busted — 

,'Fer the papers an' all, the public an' sich" — 
An' I seen he was kind o' disgusted — 

"Ter praise up the workers ter home an' not fitin' 
An' gittin' all kinds o' big pay, 

An' 'en strikin' fer more — Whoa that! Quit yer 
bitin'r— 

He was combin' an breshin' ol' Gray — 

"When the boys 'over thar' give up all thet they 
hed 

Ter fite fer thirty bones per" — 

An' I couldn't ezzac'ly tell what 'e nex' said, 
Fer 'is comb hed ketched in a burr. 



XXV 

"Killed in Action: Corporal Alonzo — " 

The day 'fore thet thar awful telegram 

From Washin'ton fer Bill was brung t' the house 

By Viny — she'd be'n up ter town; an' Gene 

The operater, lookin' kind o' white 

Hed handed her the yeller envelope 

An' sez: "It's jes' some bizness fer yer Paw" 

Me 'n' Bill was talkin' 'bout the Lib'ty bonds. 
We'd thrashed the matter over, 'n' both agreed 
The only thing ter dew, 'f a feller hed 
The price, was git a bond, an' ef 'e hedn't, 
Ter git one ennyhow; an' thet's how 'twas. 
Bill he'd suscribed with Charlie Buck, who runs 
The Farmers' Gild (an' nuthin' much besides), 
While I'd went up ter Sims' an' teched a chap 
I knowed fer five, an' trusted Proverdunce 
Ter see me threw. (Bill sez thet Proverdunce 
Is mos'ly what ye dew yerself, with p'r'aps 
A dash o' luck throwed in ter help along.) 
Then come the stunnin' news. . . Things wa'n't 

the same, 
'N' I reckon never will be 'gain. The farm 
Seemed empty like, 'n' I stopped good menny 

times 
Ter look whar Lon hed carved 'is 'nishuls on 
A crib door slat ... It give me 'n awful thump 
Inside ter see how sort o' closter Bill 
An' Laury was; she hed ter lean on him, 



78 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

An' — God, I tell ye he was suthin' wuth 
A-leanin' on, a human staff o' oak. 
Yew 'member them blue little lakes or ponds — 
Most ev'r'y country deestric' hez 'em — whar 
Fokes sez they ain't no bottom tew 'em 't all, 
Nobody never reeched it tho' they'd tried 
Fer years an' years with ev'ry kind o' line? 
Wal, thet's the way Bill's eyes looked at ye then: 
Great dep's o' shinin' feelin,' purplish blue; 
An' dogged ef I could tell which from the t'other 
A father's greef, or father's pride. 

At five 
One mornin' not long arterwards, ez I 
Was pitchin' silage down ter feed the steers, 
I seen Bill ridin' out the yard on Belle. 
He waved 'is hand an' yelled he'd be ri't back. 
At bre'kfas' time he sez jes' cazhool like: 
"I ketched thet 'ar Buck feller 'fore 'e's up, 
An' taken out another Lib'ty bond. 
'Pears like I gotta back them boys that's left 
In France jes' twict ez strong now't Lon has went." 




0he 
Skillet fork 



XXVI 
November 

Sich a mornin' o' glory I've rar'ly saw, 

Tho' they tell me thet Winter is nigh; 
The sun's fairly glary, an' hez a reel carry, 
An' I'm swattin' a bothersome fly. 

The sky was ez black ez one o' Bill's blots 

When over a letter he muddles; 
An' the win' blow'd a blast, an' the rain fell fast, 

An' the groun' was a huddle o' puddles. 

Thet was yistiddy, pard; but terday, by Joel, 

It's Aprul excep' fer the leaves; 
They're a copper an' green with a pigeony sheen, 

An' a red like our Heryford beeves. 

Mos' potes will all spring suthin' on ye 'bout russet, 
An' ox-blood, an' fawn, an' maroon; 

But they never was here in the "y e ^ er an ' sere", 
An' reality aint in the'r toon. 

I'll go further yit an' say thet the shades 

O' them colors I plainly kin see 
Is ev'ry durn hue in the specktum but blue, 

An' mebby that's thar fer all me. 

Co'se it's up in the sky whar ye'd reckon 't 'ud be, 

Sort o' balancin' up the whole; 
Yew put 'em tergether in this kind o' weather 

An' it's eye-musick, pard, fer yer soul! 



80 Idylls of the Skillet Fork 

The glint o' the sun on our Fall wheat fiel's — 
More em'raldy now then in May — 

Is Nacher's own dope on thet undyin' hope 
Thet keeps us a-pluggin' away. 

They's a nawful sweet peece kind o' hangin' aroun' 
An' it's great by this 'ere shock o' stover 

Ter feel the ol' Earth all set fer re-birth 
When the War an' the Winter is over. 



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